After the Rain
by strange-charmed
Summary: She races with him through the rain and the dark, wondering, as always, if he returns her desires. Little does she know—that all ends… tonight.


_This is an original joint fanworks collaboration between artist the-untempered-prism and myself =D Original artwork for the story is on my tumblr (handle is kilodalton, FF is being cute and not letting me post a link grrrr) ... post/78952213320/title-after-the-rain-summary-she-races-with-him_

_Thank you to fadewithfury for the invaluable beta of both the story and summary =)_

–

They race towards the TARDIS. The beating of their shoes on the pavement echoes the clatter of the rain that has overtaken them, each step casting off wet droplets that rattle onto the street like tiny diamonds casually discarded from their feet. They sprint–well, as best as she _can_ sprint in completely impractical shoes like these–through puddles on rain-slicked roads so drenched that they create their own little tide, complete with currents streaming down towards the gutters. They're holding hands, palm against palm, facing down the dangers of the world _together_,but his fingers seem to be slipping away from her own in the downpour. His stride is longer than hers, faster than she can manage in these shoes, and their grasp on each other falters as they run. No matter—she grits her teeth and holds on tight, determined to hang on as long as she can.

She's not even exactly sure what they're running _from_ this time. Today was supposed to be a festival, a kind of dark, gothic bacchanalia under the cover of night on this planet, to celebrate the end of the Season of Eclipse. The people here had spent _weeks_ without a true day in the sun, one eclipse after another relenting only temporarily to tease the slightest glimmer of sunshine before another one came along, plunging them back into shadows. Tomorrow the cycle would end, ushering in an unspoken promise of sunshine, and so tonight the revelers celebrated the departure of the darkness by embracing it one final time.

Tonight everyone became one with the shadows, adorning themselves in dark hues, cloaked in soft black velvets or nearly suffocated with onyx leather and chains. For just one evening, they were _part_ of it, the blackness and the accompanying wines – and there was a _lot _of wine – splashing in obsidian-hued drinking glasses and shadowed outdoor fountains, even put in bowls and being set on fire as revelrous torches to ward away the lonely, dark night. In a few short hours, it would all be discarded, hidden away—both the smooth burgundy wine and the romance of the hushed, darkened corners where you could occasionally see a couple clasped together, bodies hitched around each other under cover of night. Tomorrow, with the eclipses over, the day to day work of planting and preparing for the winter harvest would begin anew.

Tomorrow, their normal lives would resume.

But tonight… _tonight_ was one last taste of freedom.

He'd told her this was a festival, and she hadn't realized this was a proper _party_ until they arrived. Usually the festivals they attend are more of the _Carnivale_ variety – more fireworks and street music, more food on a stick and crowds, and less ... _dancing_. It strikes her at that moment, surveying the sumptuous gala before her, that in fact, he'd _never_ brought her to a single party, not even before he changed bodies.

Not unless he'd intended her to be the help, at least.

She's not sure what it means that he hasn't brought her to a party before—and what it means that he's doing so now—although he certainly has been more than happy to go alone to _his _fair share, complete with banana daiquiris and ill-timed jokes about her mother. She plasters a big smile on her face, determined to not let the thought upset her. Maybe he really doesn't like going to parties, she supposes. At least not with _her_, and at least not as _guests_, and she savors the rich festivities before them, wanting to drink it in and fill herself up with it while she can. This is a party—a proper party—and she is dressed to the nines and is _going_ to enjoy it, dammit.

While it lasts.

Which turns out to barely be any time at all. There had been a steady roll of thunder in the background since they'd arrived, the dark sky already cloaked in clouds. She'd barely had time to take a sip from a jeweled goblet, in fact, her ruby red lipsticked mouth barely tasting a wine so rare she knows she'd never have been able to afford it if it existed on planet earth, when the skies open up and rain begins to pour.

And so once again the Doctor grabs her hand and they are off doing what they do best—running, fingers entwined, as fast as they possibly can—or at least as fast as she can run in these shoes.

They're sexy, with ridiculously high heels – and _so _unlikeher that it almost feels like playing dress-up. Plus they match the short, strappy little black number she'd decided to wear that night. He'd seemed to like her outfit (well, at least he hadn't recommended changing into a bin bag this time), which in a way almost makes her feel self-conscious to be wearing it at all. Ever since _France_, she supposes her subconscious has been pushing her in the direction of dresses that are much fancier than anything she'd normally wear, and skirts that are a little too short. Like that thin, cheap cotton maid's uniform from Pete's World, which she'd kept on longer than she'd needed to that night, thinking that it made her legs look long – as if he'd notice that about her at _all_…

She knows _why_ she's doing it of course, even though it was too uncomfortable to think about. It's not as if her clothes will ever be as fancy or alluring as _some _people's dresses, there's no comparison. She swallows, trying to steer her mind in another direction – _any _other direction. Even after all these weeks, the name didn't bear thinking about, at least not to her. But it must still be in the forefront of his mind, she thinks. She'd taken so much time to deck herself out in that gorgeous pink dress to see Elvis, its thick, rich fabric making the few cheap dresses she'd once scrimped to buy and liked so much that she'd even brought them from home pale in comparison. She had sauntered into the console room to see his reaction… whatever it was, she hadn't noticed, too busy realizing that he'd styled his _own _hair in a Pompadour for the special event.

She's so lost in her thoughts—of him, of them, of why she's still trying, still wanting him, and still bloody wearing these bloody painful shoes in the first place—that she doesn't look down as she's running, and she doesn't see the curb. He leaps over it mid-stride, effortless as always, but her heel catches, propelling her forward into his arms like a human pinwheel.

She hears the snap of her high heel as she crashes against him, and knows without even finding her footing that her shoe is broken. She closes her eyes. Just bloody perfect.

"Easy there," he says, wrapping his arms around her. His voice is low but she can hear the smile in it, sunny as always, even in weather like this.

She stays in his embrace for a moment as she tries to regain her balance, mustering all the dignity she can. Ideally she'd be able to bend down to find the heel, try to fix it maybe—but it's dark, and everything on the street is glistening in the rain, and her dress is tight and short and—

Still keeping one arm locked around her waist, he bends down with a flourish and retrieves her heel, waggling it in front of her triumphantly. Despite the rain dripping down his hair and face, his smile is bright for a moment, only fading after a few moments when she doesn't return it.

"Are you ok?"

"Yeah," she says, moving out of his embrace with as much of a smile as she can manage. With her heel broken, her balance is off, and she stumbles a few meters towards the shelter of a storefront awning to get out of the downpour. Her hands grasp the brick face of the building, and she leans against it, exhaling deeply. She lowers her head and stares down the street at the rain coming in sheets, as any glamour she'd been going for washes away, swept down into the street gutters. She exhales and blinks rapidly, clutching at the rough brick a little tighter.

He joins her under the awning, and gazes at her wordlessly for a long moment. Despite her best efforts to stay upright, she starts to teeter, balancing on just one shoe on the wet pavement as rivulets of water run down her wet hair and sodden dress. She catches a glimpse of her reflection in the storefront window and flinches… she looks _awful_. What the hell was she thinking with this dress? Or this hairdo? Or these stupid shoes? She presses her lips together, feeling him still staring at her and knowing she needs to say something. After a moment, she looks up at him, forcing a bright smile onto her face. This isn't his fault.

"I'm alright. I'll just go barefoot."

He stares at her a moment longer, then takes a small step towards her and shakes his head.

"Here," he whispers, putting his arm around her to steady her and motioning a little ways down the alley to a house set back a ways behind the shop. Getting there means going back out in the pouring rain, and he clutches her against him, his coat over her shoulders to protect against the rain as they move slowly in its direction.

It's an old house, seemingly abandoned and dark on the inside, with a collection of news bulletins piled high against the door. He leads her up to the front porch, her hips and legs fumbling against his own as they climb up the porch stairs together. Wrapping his arm around her waist, he leads her to a bench by the front railing. It's still damp from the gusts of wind blowing rain their way, but at least they're out of the downpour for now.

She eases herself down onto the bench as gracefully as she can with just one proper shoe. She supposes she could cling on to him tighter for balance… but no. That's not her, and she doesn't want it to be her—she's never played the role of a damsel in distress and she sure as hell isn't going to start now. She has a hard _enough_ time trying and failing to not let her short dress ride up as she takes her seat. No matter—her pride is already wounded enough for one evening.

Almost immediately he crouches on the deck before her, dropping effortlessly, all limbs and knees. Pulling his glasses out of his tuxedo pocket in a single motion, he looks up at her and her breath hitches at the sight of him. Even drowned like a rat, he is so, _so _beautiful. She wishes she could say the same for herself, but one look at her dress and she knows for a fact that she can't. She frowns… her lovely dress, completely soaked through, and clinging to her in all the wrong places—hips, waist and breasts. She bites her lip, feeling exposed and self-conscious, and crosses her arms in front of her chest as casually as she can.

He stares at her a long moment, sitting perfectly still and gazing intently at a single droplet of water dripping off a drenched strand of her hair and coming to rest just above her bare knee. His eyes focus on it until it trails down her thigh out of sight, before flicking his eyes up to her own.

"May I?"

She swallows numbly and nods, not even knowing what he means and not caring. Whatever he plans to do, she trusts him. Despite everything… she can't help it. It takes her a moment to realize he's talking about the shoes as he leans down closer towards her feet.

She gives a self-deprecating chuckle. "Not used to running in these."

"They're not designed for running," he murmurs, and she grips the bench in an attempt to suppress a shiver as he reaches for her ankle. The drops of water that have spattered onto the wood moisten her hands, slickening her palms and the back of her thighs, further drenching her already soaked dress. It's not a comfortable sensation, but it's one she barely notices as one of his hands comes to wrap around the back of her bare calf, the other gingerly cradling the black patent leather of her shoe as he unfastens and removes one shoe, then the other, gently guiding her now-bare feet down to the porch. The wet floorboards feel rough and slightly uncomfortable against her bare feet, which makes her feel even more awkward if that were at all possible.

He doesn't seem to notice, though. Although his gaze is still riveted on her bare legs, his expression is thoughtful, and she wonders what he's thinking—he hasn't said a word, and the palms of his hands still rest against the back of her calves. The pad of each of his fingers is cool and gentle, and feels delicate against her leg.

"You're tense," he says, his brow furrowing. He glances up to meet her gaze. "May I—"

"Yeah," she whispers. As soon as she says it she blushes, knowing that it was a little too breathy, spoken a little too quickly.

He smiles and runs his thumbs along the sides of her calf, letting his fingertips graze gently against the back of her leg near her ankle.

"Have I ever told you about why there's a season of eclipse here?" he asks. She shakes her head in response.

"There's a ring of rocks and frozen water surrounding the planet. This planet, you see—it has quite a strong pull of gravity, so it draws other matter into its orbit. Matter shed by its own moons," he says as he begins to massage her. "And sometimes a stray meteoroid gets caught in its pull."

His movements are at first barely perceptible, just a whisper of tiny circles moving soft and gentle across her skin. "It circles 'round the planet. Not able to escape. Not wanting to."

She watches him, feels like she's melting under his darkened gaze.

"You don't notice its happening, but eventually, the ring gets to be too thick—it's just too much," he says.

Moving slowly up her calf, his fingers lace behind her leg, holding it in place as he presses his thumbs more firmly into her flesh.

"And then all of a sudden," he stops, hands going utterly still. She inhales, a small, muted gasp. The corner of his lips twitch up. "It blocks the sun. Sometimes for weeks. They don't expect it at all. The ring becomes unstable and the too-large chunks crash into each other."

His fingers move again, sinking against her flesh. They then press harder, deep against her muscle as his hands move their way up her calf.

"And then…" he pauses, clearing his throat, and continues more softly. "Well, and then it ends. Tonight," he whispers.

She can't help it—she _is _tense, and this feels extraordinary. His hands on her feel beautiful, and even though he's only caressing her calf, the sensation shoots up her leg of its own volition, pooling low in her abdomen. She shudders involuntarily and he pauses, flicking his eyes up to her own.

"Is this okay?"

She nods.

His fingers continue to knead her leg, moving up her calf, towards her thigh, and she wonders how far he'll take this. If he knows how erotic this is. If he knows she _thinks _this is erotic, and if that would make him stop entirely.

His fingers splay over her leg as he kneads her muscles, slowly climbing up her leg as if up a vine, up her calf and past her knee and onto her thigh, grown firm and muscular from this year of running at his side.

He pauses at the hem of her dress, the tight satin boundary between what she so desperately wants and how far he's likely willing to go with this. He flicks his eyes up to hers, and they bore into her own, his expression measured. She knows this look— it's the look he often gets when he's gauging a situation, and she holds her breath for a long moment.

His breath plays against the inside of her knee, hovering above the skin, far enough away such that the tiny, hot puffs of air are almost imperceptible against her flesh. She stares down at him for a long moment as the rain clatters on the shingles above them, and he meets her gaze, his dark eyes almost as black as ebony in the shadows. She wonders if she's imagining it, if her desire to feel him with her, against her, is making her dream this whole thing. If there was something in the tiny sip of wine she took that's making her hallucinate this—and she doesn't care. It feels too amazing for her to ever want it to stop, even if it is a dream.

She looks down at him… from this angle it almost looks like his lips have come to rest on her thigh, soft and gentle. She can almost imagine it, can almost feel them hot and soft against her…

But no.

No, they haven't, not really.

This whole thing is just a ridiculous fantasy.

A sense of shame floods her, washing over her so forcefully that she drops her eyes down to her lap. She feels pathetic. _Guilty_ and pathetic. He's not even _doing _anything—has never done anything, at least not with her. He's made her no promises, he's given her no indication whatsoever that he thinks of her as anything other than a mate. Even so, she can't help the slight shift of her hips against the bench—friction both to relieve her of her uncomfortable position and to relieve the desire burning like unquenched embers low and hot in her belly. As the spark of pleasure shoots down from her core, through her muscles and nerves and down her taut thighs, another spark shoots back _up_ as his lips flutter into contact with the inside of her knee.

Her mouth falls open in a quiet sigh as his eyes quickly flick up to her own, seeing if that was alright, if _they _are alright. She reaches a hand out slowly towards him as he holds her gaze, her only response being to rest her hand in his hair, gently fingering the wet locks in silent permission.

His face turns toward her, his slightly parted lips brushing upwards, deeper in towards the apex of her thighs. It's gentle—almost too gentle for her taste—but she strokes his hair, willing him to continue as her hips shift against the bench.

She can feel his mouth open then over her upper thigh, his bottom lip moist and soft. Without warning he's kissing her thigh, the sensitive skin surrounded by his lips. His tongue swirls roughly over the patch of skin as he suckles, before releasing it and looking up at her darkly.

The noise she makes is a gasping, keening sound, and she scooches down closer towards him, her parted thighs and the friction of the bench beneath her making her short dress ride up beyond any remnants of propriety. Any plausible deniability about what she wants evaporates as she sits splayed before him, her breath coming in puffs as her knickers—sodden, but not from the rain—peep out hopefully from the edge of her dress, mere centimeters from his face now, and her thighs embrace his shoulders like a desperate hug.

Her breath comes in short pants as she holds his gaze, wondering what he'll do now, why he kissed her, if he will again, and—_God_.

Without warning, his lips find their way to her thigh again, higher this time, and his hands trace the outside of her thighs up towards her knickers, hovering just out of reach of the lacy border.

Her intake of breath is strangled and needy, and she can't help herself as her fingers tighten in his hair. The spiky strands scratch against the palms of her hands as she tries to get a grip on them—a grip on _him_—and tugs. The noise that he makes is half groan, half murmur, and she can feel his lips moving against her, fluttering against the apex of her thighs, so, so close to her heated wetness. She can sense him, hovering, wanting her… but she can still barely _feel _him. And she can't tell what he's saying, what he's thinking.

All she wants is to kiss him, taste him—whether he's against her, on top of her, inside her, she doesn't care.

With a growl of frustration, grabbing at whatever she can reach, she drags him up, _in_, closer against her, grasping at his hair, his collar, his lapels, indiscriminate and needy. He's ensconced yet not quite nestled between her thighs, and she pulls at anything she can reach to pull him up towards the bench, closer to her than he is from his current position.

After all, she knows full well he'll never put _himself_ in a position to be closer to her if he can help it.

And she's right—as soon as his balance starts to give way, he pulls away. He steadies himself against her hip with both hands, fingertips catching against her skin, followed by his whole hand gripping her, drawing her hips closer so that he stays upright as she reclines before him like an offering. Despite how desperately she grabbed for him, he looks completely unmussed other than his hair, and she marvels at this… that he can have her half-naked in a semi-public place like this, while he looks barely touched at all. He holds her gaze for a long moment, and his fingers trail down from her hips, leaving a delicate path of raindrops and heat and things left unsaid, until they come to rest on the backs of her thighs.

He flexes his fingers. It's only a hint of pressure from his fingertips, the slightest coaxing, but she understands, and her thighs fall open before him.

He raises his head, and his eyes flick back up to hers. She wonders if he senses the tension in her muscles, if it's palpable in his grip on the thighs splayed wantonly around his head. His gaze isn't questioning—from both the slick heat between her thighs and her desperate clutch to draw him closer, he knows exactly what she wants just as much as she does. Rather, he's checking… to make sure she's comfortable… in this position, in this location.

There's no question about that either, in her mind. She's learned from the best, and she's always alright too.

Holding her gaze, his fingers drift up from the back of her thighs to the scrunched and wrinkled hem of her dress. His thumbs rub along the insides of her thighs and catch on the inside of the hem, anchoring it. Wordlessly, he drags it up as she shifts down closer towards him, till the skirt has ridden up uselessly above her hips.

He doesn't tear his eyes from hers, doesn't stop to look at her knickers or to leer at the hot blush in her cheeks or the barely perceptible undulation of her hips. Instead, after a moment so interminable and quiet that she can hear every beat of her jackhammering pulse against her ribs, her stomach, her neck, her clit, his gaze slowly falls to the bench where her knuckles are almost white from clenching it so hard.

Gentle but steady, he slowly reaches over and takes one of her hands in his own.

Then, without a word, he leans down.

His mouth comes to rest just over her pubic bone, and she wonders what he's doing until she feels his teeth catch on the edge of her lacy g-string to pull it off to the side, granting himself better access. The sensation is odd, and if he were another bloke she'd ask him to just take them off, or to let her do it—but her heart hammers, not only for desire but with the fear that if she tells him to back away from her now, even just for an instant, that he'll back away for good. Even so, it feels delicious—his mouth moves down the flimsy, taut piece of fabric slowly, and she wonders if he's aroused as well, and what it would be like to taste _him_.

His head dips down once again, his dark eyes still riveted on her own, and she can feel the tickle of his damp hair against the insides of her thighs. His thumb moves over the back of her knuckles, delicate as a butterfly. It strikes her that this small gesture of handholding, something they've done hundreds of times before, is even more hesitant and intimate than when his tongue was running over her g-string a moment ago. His tongue… the memory of that, and his hair coaxing gently against the insides of her thighs, and the delicate way he's stroking her hand now sends a shiver down her spine, straight to her core and she can't help the small, needy movement of her hips, writhing their way down towards his lips. Hoping, needing, wanting him… always.

Holding her gaze, he threads his fingers through her own and leans down closer towards her, his nose coming to rest on her dark patch of curls. He inhales deeply, the slight disturbance of air creating a vacuum that's almost electric in the intense absence of feeling as she strains towards him, hips tentatively pressing down towards him, to feel, to have, him, _anything_…

She sighs, both in victory and in relief at her rescue, when she feels pressure—his mouth? his tongue?—burrowing down through her curls, parting her folds. She inhales deeply—it feels like his mouth is grazing every follicle, setting them alight, and it's as if she can feel each hair bending out of the way for him, to let his lips through. She doesn't have much experience with this, and she bites her lip and stills, hoping that she smells alright—or that she tastes alright. Jimmy never wanted to do it and Mickey always preferred intercourse… but she imagines this is what his lips would feel like if they were stroking her, caressing her, trying to entice her.

She wonders if he knows that she needs no enticement—he's temptation enough.

She feels his lips soft and gentle against her wetness, and then they open, deliberate and slow. His mouth, moist and cool, surrounds her—top, bottom, left and right, his lips caressing everywhere except where she wants him to be most. Her tiny nub is pulsing, throbbing, able to vicariously pick up on the moist friction of his lips close by but yet lacking any attention of its own. His mouth dances around her clit, teasing it without touching it—and he knows this, doesn't he? He has to know this. And her eyes bore down at his own, almost hidden in the shadows, dark and deep, begging and accusing him all at once. And even in this light she can see the corners of his eyes crinkling like he is smiling—no, smirking more like, she'd have to guess—and then suddenly his expression changes and it's coal black, dark and cold and—

She sucks in a short breath, almost a gasp, as she feels his lips open again and his long, cool tongue presses against her clit, licking her slowly, drinking her in. The relief she feels is almost painful in its intensity, like gulping down an icy glass of water on a hot summer day, and she holds her breath, lungs heavy with the tension of holding back any sound at all. Not like it matters—the clatter of the rain on the roof is so loud, so rumbling, that it would surely drown out any moan or whimper.

His tongue stirs over her clit once again, harder this time, and she can feel the roughness of his tongue tight against her smooth, sensitive skin. She's wet enough that his mouth glides right over her, his cool tongue quenching the pooling heat, drowning the sparks of her sensations with his own intensity. The noise she makes pierces through the night, through the rain, as and her hips move upwards, her thighs spreading convulsively of their own will to let him in, to beg him in.

She can feel the shape of his mouth changing at this, and she knows he's smiling. His lips must be pulled taut because suddenly the softness is gone, the friction is less, and her heart worriedly hammers a staccato beat. She wonders if the noise she made is too much—if her cry shattered some invisible wall between them—this is more than he wanted, if—

His free hand delicately wraps around one of her thighs then, embracing it. He pulls her down slightly more tightly against him, and wraps her leg over his shoulder for a better angle. She's so surprised that it barely registers that her arse is scraping uncomfortably against the bench and the back of her skirt is so tight against the sodden wood that she knows it's likely ripped beyond all repair.

After a moment, he leans in closer, his sideburn tickling the apex of her thighs just below her curls and she can feel her lips gently prodded by his nose—or lips—or chin—or _fuck _she doesn't even care what it is, as long as he keeps doing that. And her leg is wrapping itself around his back, drawing him closer as his mouth once again opens so slowly that she feels like she's in freefall—her heart racing, hammering rapidly against her ribcage, while her hips and his mouth are in a world of their own, suspended in time… then finally, _finally _his mouth is fully open and his tongue once again presses against her clit.

It's glorious, how his tongue laves against her as softly as silk, and her thighs fall wider of their own volition to give him better access, the tension in her arse almost painful from the strain of stopping herself from pressing into him once again. Instead she grips his hand more tightly, her rain-slicked fingers locking with his own, stilling the temptation to undulate her hips against him lest he back off from her again, instead leaning her head back so that it rests on the railing. She can feel the droplets of water from the roof spilling over the sides, splashing onto her hair, drenching it with its coldness, but she doesn't care, _can't_ care.

His tongue plunges down, back and forth, circling against her clit in tight patterns, and she wonders how he's gotten so good at this, something like jealousy striking her even now when his tongue is inside her and she has him all to herself. She threads her fingers through his hair again, feeling it dance against her palms with the motion of his head between her thighs. The hand holding her own grips her harder as well, and she traces soothing circles against it, willing him to continue, to do _anything _but stop. She feels the hand not holding her own start to meander along the inside of her thighs, but the sensation barely registers—his mouth is everywhere, her clit and her vulva and—

She gasps, her legs clenching around his back even harder, pulling him closer as she feels his finger begin to move into her entrance. His tongue sashays around her clit, elegant and almost in stark contrast to the rougher sensation of his finger—fingers?—oh god, yes, two of them—pushing inside of her, moving in time with the gentle undulations of her hips, except faster, knowing exactly what she wants.

In and out, and his fingers must be at least as slick as his tongue; she can almost hear their movement over the patter of the rain. Rain which is fading from the sky, the atmosphere and the bench, and everything around them has grown hazy and meaningless except for the feeling of his mouth on her, his fingers in her, and his hand in hers.

He sweeps his tongue down, and her chest begins to heave… she's been as quiet as she can be this whole time but it's him and it's her and it's amazing and she can't stop the silent whisper of his name on her lips even as she tries to bite it back. Her breath is hot and ragged, moving in time and rhythm with his lips in the wet night air, droplets of water still beaded on her face.

Down one more time, circling back around, and his fingers are in deeper inside too, twisting and coaxing and it makes no sense, none of it makes sense, how she could be drenched and likely getting a bruise from the bench, and feeling the ache of the muscles in her arse, but not want any of it to stop—not ever. She knows she's close—_so_ close, and she doesn't want to come yet but he—

She gasps.

His tongue dives down one more time and she shatters, her breath a whisper on the night air. There's one last pulse of his fingers as his tongue circles around one last time, and then—she's soaring. It's blinding and free and as her hips convulse under his mouth, his name falls from her lips like the rain from the sky, over and over, beating down on the pavement and in her chest and through the locks of her hair, making her skid out of control until something is broken, and leading them to this moment, entangled here… forever yet so, so briefly.

She doesn't know, doesn't care, how long it takes until her breath evens out and everything is still. She looks down at him, rocked back on his heels on the porch, regarding her with an almost hesitant expression. Although it's dim, she can see a trace of glistening wetness of his mouth and she smiles, knowing it's from her. Grinning, her eyes fall to their hands, still entangled on the bench—she wonders if _he _too is aroused, if he would like her to reciprocate, and her eyes flick up to his as she squeezes his fingers.

"How about you? Would you like—"

He smiles, still holding her gaze. "Let's get you warm first," he whispers.

His fingers still entwined with her own, he leaps to his feet, and helps her up. She straightens her knickers and pulls down her dress as demurely as she can, even though it's clearly headed straight for the bin. She looks down at herself—ruined dress, bare feet—wryly and shrugs. His eyes are intent on hers for a moment, then fall to his coat.

"Oh… you might want these. I brought them because, well, you know how our trips end up most of the time, and I thought you'd—"

He leaves the rest of the sentence unspoken, and she grins as he slowly pulls out a pair of her trainers.

"Bit better for running," she says, letting go of his hand to perch on the bench once more and lace them.

He hums in agreement. She stands once more, and his eyes fall to her feet in approval. With a wide grin, he reaches out once more for her hand. Lacing her fingers with his own, she slowly leans up on tiptoe and gives him a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth. He turns more fully towards her, catching her lips with his own. It's chaste but sweet, and she bites back a shy grin, tasting herself on him.

As she pulls back he smiles down at her—a quiet, contented smile, and his gazes falls past her shoulder towards the street.

"The rain's stopped," he says.

She turns around—sure enough, the only droplets that fall now are belated drips from the awnings and porch roofs. The night is otherwise quiet as far as she can tell—the revelry in the background has stopped, and all is still. The air is thick with the moisture of the evening, a sheer mist beginning rise up on the street and gently cloak the pavement.

"Yeah," she says. "Bit foggy though."

"No matter," he says with a shrug. "Easy enough to find our way back."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he whispers, not letting her question linger for even a moment. He grins down at her one more time and gently squeezes her fingers as she smiles back up at him, nestling into his shoulder.

Still hand in hand, they walk back towards the TARDIS.


End file.
